superintendent of the royal music. Among other entertainments a Ballet
des Saisons was given, in which the King, in a gorgeous costume
representing Spring, danced with his usual grace and skill, while
Madame, in a gown of shining tissue, delicate as a butterfly's wing, led
her troupe of Bacchantes, Louise de La Valliere among them.
It was after one of these entertainments, which were sometimes followed
by rambles in the park lasting until two or three o'clock in the
morning, that the scene under the Royal Oak took place which Dumas has
so ingeniously woven into his romance of La Valliere. You remember that
the three maids of honor of Madame,--Montelais, Athenais, and
Louise,--were grouped together under the famous oak in the forest of
Fontainebleau, which had witnessed the sighs for love or glory of the
great Henry and many another monarch. The conversation of the three
girls on life and love sounds trite and commonplace as we read the
story, and yet in the light of the events that followed in quick
succession the sentimental platitudes of the innocent child, La
Valliere, and the worldly aphorisms of the ambitious Athenais,
afterwards Madame de Montespan, gain both dignity and pathos. That
Louise, the timid and gentle, should express herself so warmly upon her
admiration for the King reveals the fact that the handsome young
sovereign had already made an impression upon her sensitive heart. For
her it seemed that there had been no one worthy of notice at the dance
except the King, the living embodiment of the springtime he personified.
When she exclaimed with fervor, "Have you ever seen any one to be
compared with the King?" even the bold Athenais was surprised at the
frankness of the little Blesoise. A still greater surprise was in store
for the Three Graces under the Royal Oak when a rustling was heard in
the undergrowth of the adjoining quincunx, and with cries of "A wolf! or
a wild boar!" they all scampered away as fast as their feet could carry
them to the safe and sure shelter of Madame's apartments, to learn later
to their dismay that the rustling in the bushes had been caused, not by
a wolf or a wild boar, but by the King himself, who was sauntering
through the park with M. de Saint-Aignan.
Whether or not Louise ever thus openly expressed her admiration for the
King, one may readily believe that even a slight impression made upon
the girl's imagination would be inevitably deepened and strengthened in
these days when the court life at Fontainebleau is described as a
delirium of ambition, pleasure and love. The merry-making and feasting
continued, the _fetes_ still being given in Madame's honor, and "the
modest violet" might have remained hidden beneath its leaves had not
Madame Henriette's schemes involved Louise. It appears that the Queen
Mother, having in common with others observed the King's growing
admiration for his beautiful sister-in-law, expostulated with him,
entreating him, in the name of dignity and decorum, to discontinue his
attentions to her. The King, angry and disconcerted that his actions
should be criticised, formed with the aid of the quick-witted Madame,
who cared little for Louis but greatly enjoyed her position as queen of
the hour, a plot which involved several of the maids of honor. So
infamous was this plot of Madame's that one wonders that a woman, to
whom kindness of heart has been attributed, could have countenanced a
scheme so cruel. "In order to hide their own game," said Saint-Beuve,
"the King was to pay make-believe attention to several of Madame's maids
of honor." The three selected were Mademoiselle de Pons, Mademoiselle de
Chimerault, and Mademoiselle de La Valliere. It soon appeared that the
latter was the one whom the King preferred to seem to be in love with.
The plot soon thickened quite beyond Madame's anticipations, the
make-believe attentions became real, the other maids of honor were quite
neglected, Madame herself was forgotten, and while trying to dazzle the
eyes of the public Louis himself was bewildered, and soon found himself
seriously in love with La Valliere, at least as seriously in love as it
was in his nature to be. And Louise was then and ever after deeply,
hopelessly in love with the King.
Is it strange that this innocent girl, little more than a child in years
and experience, with many to flatter and criticise, but none to counsel
or protect, should have fallen into the trap that was laid for her
unwary feet? From her quiet village home she was suddenly, as Madame's
dame d'honneur, introduced to a new world, in which the King, young,
handsome, and possessed of all the graces and accomplishments of his
age, was the central figure. Before she had time to become accustomed to
the life around her, the greatest temptation that could be offered to a
Frenchwoman of that day was presented to her. This monarch, the Roi
Soleil to his adoring satellites, was at her feet, telling her that he
loved her, and her only, little Louise de La Valliere, whom the haughty
court dames had looked down upon as insignificant, lacking in grace and
even beauty. It was only a few short days since water parties, ballets,
and _fetes_ had been given in Madame's honor; the gayety continued, but
Henriette was no longer the inspiration of these festivities, which were
planned for other _beaux yeux_, whose she does not know. Louise was so
modest and retiring, so anxious to spare the Queen sorrow and pain, that
it was some time before it transpired that the little Blesoise, whom
Madame would not have condescended to look upon as a possible rival, was
the reigning favorite.
In the midst of the scheming, love making, jealousy, and carousing, the
King's second child--the little Princess Anne Elizabeth--opened her eyes
to the light of the world, only to close them again before the
rejoicings at her birth were well over, even before the foreign
ambassadors who came to welcome her had reached Paris. The Queen was
deeply grieved at the loss of her child, Louis wept copiously over the
family affliction, but being in greater need of distraction than before
we find him a few weeks later dancing gayly in a Ballet des Arts in
company with Mademoiselle de Mortmart, _la belle Athenais_, Mademoiselle
de Sevigne, whom her fond mother called the "prettiest girl in France,"
and Mademoiselle de La Valliere, who, despite her slight lameness,
danced to perfection, her slim figure, of the lissome slenderness that
belongs to early youth, showing to great advantage in the figures of the
cotillon.
You know the sad story far better than I do. The few short years of
enchantment when Louise lived in the delirium of love's young dream, yet
was never really happy, never enjoying her honors as Duchesse de La
Valliere, the royal favorite, because her conscience was ever awake and
her tender heart filled with remorse for the sorrow she had caused the
Queen. The brief years of enchantment were soon over, to be followed by
disillusionment, when it was revealed to Louise that the fickle heart of
Louis had succumbed to other charms; the final flight from court and the
long years of repentance at the Carmelites.
Twice before Louise had taken refuge in a convent. The first time she
sought to fly from her passion and herself, to be brought back to court
by the adoring King, the second flight was when Louis had begun to
transfer his attentions to Madame de Montespan, and finally, at thirty,
Louise de La Valliere retired to Chaillot to expiate whatever sins she
had committed by thirty-six long years of prayer and penitence. Having
entered the Carmelites in the bright bloom of her beauty, her lovely
blonde hair severed from her graceful head, La Valliere was known ever
after as Sister Louise de la Misericorde, and as if anything more were
needed to complete the tragedy, the King whom she had loved so deeply,
to whom she had sacrificed her life, although at the time much engrossed
with Madame de Montespan, was incapable of forgiving Louise for quitting
the court, and never made the slightest effort to see her again. "He has
forgotten her," wrote the vivacious and outspoken Madame, mother of the
Regent, "as much as if he had never known her."
In her repentance, which was evidently deep and sincere, La Valliere
likened herself to three great sinners, the Canaanitish woman, the
woman of Samaria, and the Magdalen, and asked only that her sins be
forgiven. Bossuet, who received her confession, compared her to a dove
taking its flight heavenward, while Madame de Sevigne, who visited her
at the Carmelites about the time of the marriage of La Valliere's
daughter to the Prince de Conti, wrote to Madame de Grignan: "But what
an angel she appeared to me! To my eyes she possessed all the charms of
early days, the same eyes and the same expression: the austere life,
meagre fare and little sleep _ni les lui ont ni creuses ni battus_. The
severe costume has despoiled her of no grace or dignity; indeed, this
dress and this retreat add greatly to her dignity."
Just as we were leaving the chateau a pleasant diversion came in the
form of a call from M. La Tour, who had motored over from his father's
country seat to dine with us to-night. I was glad to see him, as I
wished to thank him for a book which we found at the hotel, when we
reached here yesterday, which has added so much to our interest in the
chateau. I tell M. La Tour that if we dream to-night of court pageants
at Blois, midnight strolls in the forest, and girlish confidences under
the Royal Oak, at Fontainebleau, it will be quite his fault for making
the story so real to us. Then, as if to deepen the impression already
made, he proceeded to draw us a picture of the _cortege_ attending Louis
XIV on his arrival at Blois,--the great state carriages of wood and
leather, with their Genoa velvet cushions and wide wheels, surrounded by
outriders advancing in perfect order, at a foot's pace, the musketeers
in their brilliant uniform, the horns of varying sorts exciting the dogs
and horses,--movement, noise, color, a mirage of light announced the
King's approach to the chateau, of which nothing can now convey any
adequate idea unless it be the picturesque splendor and false majesty of
a theatrical spectacle.
As M. La Tour described this brilliant scene, another arose before me
unbidden, this last in the dim religious light of the convent, where a
woman still young, in the full maturity of her beauty, is taking the
veil, which is held for the former royal favorite by the neglected Queen
of Louis, Maria Teresa. Although some chroniclers tell us that the
King's eyes were red with weeping all the day before, he probably went
hunting that day after pheasants, or whatever game was in season, amid
the flatteries and acclamations of his courtiers. So short was the
memory of a King! So long and deep was the repentance of a woman more
sinned against than sinning!
The floral offerings, this evening, were handsomer than usual, having
come from M. La Tour's paternal gardens. Miss Cassandra and I have
bouquets of sweet peas of exquisite shades of mauve, purple and white,
quite suitable for chaperones, while for Lydia was reserved a choice
posy of the blue forget-me-nots, that the French adore, surrounded by
mignonette. Lydia is wearing a soft grey voile gown to-night, cut low
enough to reveal the roundness and whiteness of her throat, and the blue
flowers against her grey corsage made a perfect finish to the simple,
dainty costume, beside which they are exactly the color of her eyes.
Upon this fact M. La Tour is probably expatiating this minute, as they
are talking together in the embrasure of a window in this odd little
room which answers the purpose of salon and writing room, in which I
scribble off these lines to you. We are all enjoying the young
Frenchman's visit, with one exception perhaps, Archie, who is smoking on
the terrace alone. I can see his face from where I am sitting, and it
wears a rather careworn expression,--much as he used to look when he was
interne at the P----Hospital and had a particularly bad case under his
care. Walter, who is writing at a table near me, is laughing over my
description, and says that this is a bad case for Archie and M. La Tour,
whatever it may be for Lydia, who Quaker-like is so self-contained and
serene of countenance that she does not betray her feelings by so much
as the lifting of an eyelash. She treats both of her admirers with
charming impartiality.
"How is Archie ever going to find out whether Lydia cares for him,
Zelphine?" This from Walter's writing table, in a stage whisper. "Even
you, inveterate matchmaker that you are, have met your Waterloo for
once. Angela, with all her roguish ways, wasn't a patch to this demure
Lydia. You certainly are having experiences, Zelphine, and are keeping
your hand in for Christine and Lisa when they come along. I feel sorry
for poor old Archie; but we all have to have our troubles in this line
sooner or later."
"Then why have you added to Archie's troubles by urging M. La Tour to go
with us to-morrow?"
"How could I help asking him," this in Walter's most persuasive tone,
"when he has taken the trouble to come over here to dine with us? In
common decency I could do nothing else."
"Of course nothing will ever come of this, as M. La Tour's parents have
no doubt arranged an advantageous marriage for him, but----"
"Do you want anything to come of it, Zelphine?"
"How you tease! You know very well that I do not; but poor Archie's
holiday is being spoiled, all the same."
"Well, he can't go with us anyhow, Zelphine dear, for to-morrow is his
mother's birthday, and he will have to leave here betimes, in order to
be at home to lunch with Madame La Tour. I must go out on the terrace
now and comfort Archie."
"Don't be _too_ comforting, Walter, and why didn't you tell me before
that M. La Tour could not go with us to-morrow?"
"I did not quite realize how important his movements were, and after all
he holds out a hope of rejoining us at Chinon, on Monday."
This conversation with my good man, dear Margaret, will give you a
fairly satisfactory idea of a very unsatisfactory state of affairs
except that I am not quite sure about Chinon. Walter looked so
mischievous, when he added that bit of information, that I am inclined
to think he made it up, on the spur of the moment, just to give me
something to think about.
By the way, I am leaving the most important item for the end of this
long letter. M. La Tour brought a charming note from his mother,
inviting us to lunch with her any day that suits us. The Chateau La Tour
is somewhere between Blois and Paris, not much out of our way; but we
really have not time to stop over even for a few hours, as Angela writes
from Paris that the Dudleys leave her on Tuesday to sail from Cherbourg.
The child cannot stay at a hotel alone, and she says that she is so busy
over her trousseau that she has not time to join us here even for a few
days. So you see we have only Monday for Chinon, a night at Angers and a
full day on Tuesday, as we return to Paris, via Orleans, where we wish
to have several hours _en route_ for the Joan of Arc associations.
It would be a delightful experience to lunch at the Chateau La Tour, but
under the circumstances, a trifle embarrassing. Archie would flatly
refuse to go, I am sure, and Walter would think it a perfect bore, so it
is just as well that we have a good, ready-made excuse. I don't know
what Miss Cassandra thinks about the situation of affairs, as for once
in her life she is as discreet and non-committal as Lydia; but she is
evidently much disappointed about the luncheon at the Chateau La Tour.
She is always ready for a new experience, and is eager to meet Madame La
Tour, who claims cousinship with her. However, this last pleasure may be
only deferred, as Madame hopes to call upon us in Paris later in the
month.
XII
THREE CHATEAUX
HOTEL DE FRANCE, Blois, September 11th.
THIS has been a golden day of pure delight, with a brilliant sunshine
from early morn to dewy eve, and a cool, refreshing air, an altogether
ideal day for our prolonged visitations among the chateaux around Blois!
Lydia and I went to the little Protestant church with Miss Cassandra
this morning, as a salve to our consciences, Archie says, in view of the
giddy round of pleasure that we had planned for the afternoon. He and
Walter tried to beguile Lydia from our side, to spend the morning in
roaming about Blois with them; but she is a loyal little soul and
resisted all their blandishments with sweet steadfastness, saying that
after following the Huguenots through all the miseries that were heaped
upon them, the least that we can do is to honor their memories in their
chapel here at Blois.
Archie says that we are quite right and that this sentiment is
praiseworthy; but that as he and Walter were unable to honor these
heroic souls in their own language, to attend such a service would be a
mockery.
"Yes," Walter added, "it would seem like a bit of play-acting to sit
there in church, like two whited sepulchres, trying to look as if we
understood when we should not know six words of what was being said."
Miss Cassandra, being accustomed to religious service where not a word
is spoken in any language, naturally does not think much of these
arguments; but having a strong liking for my two men she is quite
willing to excuse them from accompanying us to the chapel. Nor do I
wonder that they are glad to have a fine morning in which to roam about
this interesting old town together, and to give zest and point to their
rambles, M. La Tour has told them of an ancient coin associated with the
history of Blois. This coin is said to be the oldest document in
existence on, or in, which the name of Blois is inscribed, it also bears
the name of the officer of the mint at Blois at the time of its issue,
far back in history. Of course Walter and Archie are very anxious to see
this ancient coin, and M. La Tour has given them a letter of
introduction to the man who has charge of it, which he assured them
would admit them to a view of it Sundays or holidays, or any time in the
day or night.
We enjoyed the service in the little church, where we heard a really
eloquent discourse from an old _pasteur_ with the most beautiful,
benevolent face that you can imagine. We are quite sure that this
handsome, venerable clergyman comes from a long line of heroic Huguenot
ancestors, and Miss Cassandra says that she did not mind so much not
understanding what he said, as she was quite sure that it was all to
edification, which she evidently does not always feel with regard to the
long tales that the guides spin off for us, and in truth Lydia and I
have tripped them up more than twice in their history. We returned to
the hotel quite enthusiastic about the chapel and its pastor, and Miss
Cassandra is already planning some benevolent scheme to help the
evidently struggling congregation. If her means were equal to her
charitable intent, what would she not do for the benefit of mankind in
all quarters of the globe? Walter and Archie were so impressed by her
description of "the venerable descendant of a long line of massacred
Huguenots" that they have made substantial acknowledgments to be sent by
Lydia and myself to the patrons of the little chapel.
The idea of visiting three chateaux in one afternoon was rather
appalling at first; but the afternoon was long, beginning soon after our
twelve o'clock _dejeuner_, and the roads are fine for motoring in this
level country. Our way lay for some miles by Loire, first on one bank
and then on the other. This flat country, with its wide reaches of
meadow land and distant horizon lines, has a charm of its own, its
restfulness suits the drowsy autumn days, and no trees could be better
fitted to border these roadsides and river banks than the tall slim
Lombardy poplars, with their odd bunches of foliage atop like the plumes
and pompons on soldiers' caps. Down by some of the streams large white
poplars have spread out their branches, making coverts from the sunshine
for man and beast. On these poplars we noticed what looked like huge
green nests. "Are they crows' nests?" we asked, as there seem to be no
end of crows all about here.
"No, not for the _corbeaux_," said the chauffeur, shaking his head and
looking fairly puzzled, as he explained with some elaboration that this
was a parasitic plant which drew its nourishment from various trees, and
that later in the season white, waxlike berries would appear upon it.
"It is the mistletoe!" exclaimed Lydia, joyously, as if meeting an old
friend in a strange land, and as she was, as usual, conducting the
general information course, she asked the chauffeur if it was not used
for decoration at Christmas and the New Year, being hung where lovers
were likely to pass, a custom derived from the rites of the ancient
Druids. The chauffeur was evidently unacquainted with the ways of the
Druids, his studies in folk lore not having been extensive; but the bit
about the lovers he understood, and in that curious way, that has so
often surprised us, perhaps by a certain mental telepathy, he suddenly
understood, slapped his hand upon his knee, and exclaimed, "Yes, yes,
Mademoiselle, it is the same thing, le mis-le-toe, _le gui_."
So it is _le gui_, that we see on so many trees, and this man, evidently
of the soil, as he knows all about the products here, tells us that it
grows upon pear, apple and other trees and is cut off and sent in great
quantities to the large towns for holiday celebrations.
From the level landscape with low-lying meadows and fields of turnips in
which men and women were at work, we suddenly saw the great round towers
of Chaumont rising from among the trees of a well-wooded ridge. Like
Langeais, Chaumont is a strong fortress of the middle ages, dark and
lowering at a first view, but with much beauty in its hillside park and
gardens. We crossed a creaking, swaying suspension bridge, one is always
crossing bridges here, as the Loire winds itself around these chateaux
as if it delighted to encircle them in its shining arms.
The best view of the chateau is from this bridge, which connects the
villages of Chaumont and Onzain. From this coign of vantage it rises
before us, crowning the hill-crest with its many towers and dominating
the little village at its feet and the broad river. The Loire is twice
as wide here as at Blois, its surface broken up by many sand bars and
stretches of pebbly beach, such brilliantly colored pebbles as we used
to see in Northern Italy, when the rivers were low as these are here
to-day. Much the same view is this as John Evelyn's first sight of
Chaumont, on a May day long ago: "We took boate," wrote Evelyn, "passing
by Chaumont, a proud castle on the left hand; before it a small island
deliciously shaded with tall trees." As we motored through the village
street, whose houses run parallel with the river, we noticed that the
town seemed to be _en fete_. The outside of the little church was
decorated with banners, lanterns and flowers, while within it was so
filled to overflowing with villagers, and small maidens in white frocks
and pink and blue sashes, that we could scarcely get our noses within
the doorway. The village was celebrating some church festival, the
chauffeur told us; but we stupidly forget which saint was being honored,
perhaps because the remainder of the afternoon was spent among those who
had small claim to saint-hood, and then as Miss Cassandra says, "There
are so many of these saints, how can we ever keep track of them all?"
[Illustration: CHATEAU OF CHAUMONT: THE LOIRE ON THE LEFT]
"And it is so much easier to remember the sinners," Walter adds,
"because there is always something doing among them."